


Bicky's Chickens

by Derien



Category: WODEHOUSE P. G. - Works
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-01
Updated: 2011-01-01
Packaged: 2017-10-14 07:41:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/146953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Derien/pseuds/Derien
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bicky thought raising chickens and selling eggs would be a good way to make money, but he lives in a small apartment in New York City.  Can voodoo help?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bicky's Chickens

**Author's Note:**

> Many, many, thanks to my kind betas: Kryptyd, who was willing to kick things around with me, and Jabber_moose, who reminded me that just checking the back of the video box might not be the best way to do research.
> 
> Disclaimer: To think I owned these characters would be the greatest folly. Not so, but in fact quite otherwise. I'm just developing them. Bicky and Rocky belong to Wodehouse, but one 'character' belongs to RatGirl. ;)

Pairing: Rocky Todd / Francis "Bicky" Bickerstaff.  


*********************

I had met Bicky because of a series of misunderstandings which I later thought was the luckiest mess I'd ever been mixed up in. Our mutual friend, Bertie, did his best to help us both out, and his manservant, Jeeves, got us out of it mostly unscathed, and the whole thing is a long and complicated story that Bertie tells much better than I. Bicky and I had needed to coordinate our efforts carefully in order to make it all work, though, and I had developed an appreciation for him during that difficulty, and then when his father and my Aunt later tied the knot after the whole thing was over he proclaimed at the wedding that he and I were nearly as good as family. There was a good deal we still didn't know about each other, but we had some natural sympathies, both being writers.

He's more the regular sort of writer, and plugs away at whatever assignment he gets in a businesslike way. I'm a poet. It doesn't make much money, of course, but my Aunt has kindly set me up with a small cabin in the woods where I can stay well away from distractions so that I can concentrate. The quiet life, that's what I like. I don't have to change out of my pajamas all day if I don't have a mind to! And a small pond I can leap into for a swim any time I like. It's very nearly idyllic for me, though every so often I do wish for a little company. It's not a long train trip down to New York City, if I feel like I can spare the cash for a ticket that month, and now that I knew Bicky I thought I might have a place to stay.

“Hullo, Rocky, is that you?”

I must have looked like a hobo curled on the floor of the hall in front of Bicky's apartment.

“Yes, it's me,” I replied quite uselessly as he gave me a hand up. “Did you get my telegram?” I asked. I wanted to ask where he'd been until so late in the evening, but I didn't want to admit I hadn't waited for a return telegram from him.

“I'm sorry I was out so late. Didn't you get the reply I sent back, then? This is really a terrible time to be visiting, Rocky.”

Which was why I hadn't waited for a reply – he'd responded the same way to my last telegram and I was feeling a little nervous about his previous claim that we were as good as family. “I didn't. I couldn't wait, I was in kind of a hurry.”

“Well, come along in, since you're here. I can give you a cup of tea, anyway. Heavens knows I could use one.” He unlocked the door to his apartment and ushered me in, where I immediately stubbed my toe on something in the semi-dark as I tried to step aside to let him by. I let out a yelp, though it was more of surprise, as whatever I'd hit was slightly yielding.

“Oh, sorry. It's a bit cramped. Let me get the light on.”

A naked bulb in the middle of the room revealed the scene when he pulled its string. What I'd run into was a gunny sack like animal feed is bought in, and it appeared mostly full.

“Er, yes,” Bicky said, watching my first expression before I could hide it. “I should have warned you. I haven't had time to clean up.”

“Oh, that's okay, I'm not much of a housekeeper myself. But if I need to I can always shove some stuff in the shed out back. Or dig a hole.” I realized that sounded pretty bad just a moment after it came out of my mouth. “I guess you don't have that option,” I finished, lamely.

“No. This is pretty much it. Well. Tea?”

“Sure.”

He bustled around with the kettle and cups, moving a stack of magazines off a chair with more apologies and dropped them on the floor, shoved things back on the table and stacked them higher to allow a second space for a cup while I babbled something foolish about visiting him, not his house – it got a smile, anyway.

“What brought you down to the city?”

“Oh. Business.”

“Yes, you said in your telegram. Are your publishers finally doing something for you?”

“Yes. Well. No.”

“They really ought.”

I loved the funny little English way he said that 'ought' with such emphasis, and was horrified to hear myself saying so, and “I guess you can't help it, being from there and all...” Babbling again – I can't seem to stop that when I'm really nervous. “Gosh, the walls must be paper thin, here. I can hear your neighbors talking. They sound like chickens.”

Bicky looked a little sick. “Well. I do think your publishers don't do enough for you. I'm sure your work is good, but it's not as if poetry sells itself. They need to get you some signings and such.”

I blushed under his protective regard, and found myself saying, “I did bring them some new work.”

“And what did they say?”

“I, um, haven't gone to see them, yet. Tomorrow, I guess.”

“Oh, I had thought you must have had an appointment today that you had to hurry down to.”

“Well, um. Yes. No. I thought I did, but I guess I was wrong about the day.”

“Where are you staying, then?”

“Oh. Well. I was hoping you could let me stay here.”

“Here? There's really no place to sleep here, as you can see. No guest room. In fact, no bedroom at all. This is all of it.”

“Gosh. I can sleep on the floor, though. It's just, you know, I'm a little short of money, my Aunt hasn't sent me anything for a while.”

“Oh my. Your Aunt... she's my stepmother, now! And I know just how it is when you don't get sent anything for a while. We'll figure something out. There's not even much floor space when the bed comes down out of the wall, but it's a double bed. You can kip in with me, that's really not a problem!”

Was there something just the slightest bit elaborately casual about the way he said that? I couldn't be sure, I was far too shaken by the offer.

“Oh, I, I, you really don't have to, I could fit anywhere, in a corner...”

“I couldn't let you do that, not when there's really plenty of room. I'd feel like a cad.”

“There's really not much room, though, you said it yourself. I'd be intruding. I can find someplace else to go - “

“No, I can't hear of it. You're a cousin, now! It's settled. Now let me see if I can find something for us to eat; I think there must be a few baked potatoes in the ice box,” and he was off on another bustle with plates and a pan.

Not long after he had put the tiny potatoes in his little oven, though, he sat down across the corner of the table from me and gave me a look, took a deep breath and said, “Well. I suppose I should show you something. You see, there was a reason I wasn't so keen to have you stay, at first. It had slipped my mind that you're family, I've been under a bit of a strain. Can I trust you with a secret?”

“Of course! Of course! Anything!” My heart was pounding, wondering what sort of a secret I might become privy to – a secret of Bicky's was something I ached to keep.

“It's just... this.” Bicky opened the cabinet under the sink, and something moved inside of it. I leaped up in alarm.

“It's just a chicken. Well, two of them. Hens.” He opened the other door.

I didn't know what to say, so I just cocked my head at him. I really don't think well on my feet.

“I read this booklet, you see, about how cheaply you can make a little extra cash by selling eggs. It's a wonderful plan, really!” He began to lay it out for me, but he flew through it all so quickly, and the numbers confused me, so after a moment I interrupted him.

“How is it working out so far?”

His face fell. “They haven't laid a single egg as yet. But I haven't had them very long; they need time to get used to their new home, I think. They keep the cockroaches down wonderfully, though! Still, I can't tell you how worried I've been that my landlady will find out I have them and evict me. She asked an elderly Norwegian lady to leave just last week for keeping a goat on the roof. I don't know what to do. I've been at the library late every evening studying up on chickens – well, to try to see how to get them to lay – and on New York City law in regards to livestock; that's where I was this evening. So, there you have it. I think the potatoes should be hot enough.”

“Do you have any butter?”

“Er, no. But I do have some sour cream left over from Mrs. Stahl's goat. At least it's a sort of cream... okay, it's sour milk.”

“I'll try a little. Have you come up with anything in your law studies, yet?” I asked, as he turned to the ice box for the milk.

“Not much." He began to set the tiny space on the corner of the table with china and flatware for both of us, as well as the bottle of milk. "There is one thing, but I have no idea how to use it. There's a grandfather clause regarding poultry. Supposedly if there have always been chickens on the premises then you can continue to keep them. But I have no way of knowing if there have always been chickens elsewhere in this building. There may well have been, but the tenants would have kept them hidden just as I am!”

“You might have to give up your hens, then?”

“Or find another place to live," he replied, seating himself with a dejected thump on the thin padding of the metal chair. "This was the cheapest flat I could find, and with what little I make freelancing and the occasional bit from my father I can't afford much else. Even if I could, would I find someplace in town that would let me keep them? I don't really want to give up Colette and Paulette now that I'm used to them.”

“You named them Colette and Paulette?” I couldn't help smiling in delight.

“They sounded rather like the sort of names chickens might call themselves. Clucky noises.”

“They're perfect names!”

The praise drew a sheepish smile from Bicky and if I hadn't already been decided on helping I'd have settled on doing so at that moment. “Listen, if it doesn't work out I could always give them a home up at my cabin. It would be pleasant to have them around. You would be welcome, too... though I know you like the city life.” My voice quavered a little, I could tell; I could hardly believe I had said it, and I didn't want to think about the sweet torture I might be letting myself in for if he took me up on it.

“That's awfully kind of you, Rocky, but I'd hate to intrude on your quiet, I know it's important to your work.”

“It's just a thought. I'm sure you'll come up with something.”

Oddly, though, as I'm not really the biggest brain in the world (as anyone who knows me will tell you), it was I who came up with something. It came to me in the fevered hours of the night as I was laying next to Bicky in most of my clothes – I'd been too nervous to take much off when we went to bed – staring at the ceiling and trying to not move too much and disturb his sleep. Eventually I drifted off, and woke when it began to get light out. As soon as I opened my eyes and turned my head to see his eyes flicker open as well I announced, “I've had a thought! You have to prove that there have been chickens in residence here, but maybe they don't have to have been living here!”

“What?”

“Well, do they have to be living to be resident? What if there were a ghost chicken?”

“Ghost chicken?”

“Sure! It's been in residence here for years.”

“I don't think that's how the law works.”

“But does it matter? If we can convince your landlady that it might be?”

“I.. see!” He sat up, energized. “This has possibilities! She's no great intellect, I'm sure she has no idea what the specific wording of the law is. Honestly, I'm not sure, and I read it only yesterday. How do we convince her of this ghost chicken's existence, though?”

“Bicky, I'm no great intellect myself, I can't come up with everything. What about a medium, though? My Aunt knows one. We pay her off to say it...?”

“Somehow my landlady has to hear this, though. It might be hard to just sort of happen to have the medium tell her. And how much do you suppose it costs to get a medium to lie about ghosts?”

We continued to debate around this problem as we went on about the morning's business, starting with trying to both brush our teeth over the same tiny sink in a bathroom barely big enough to turn around in – a pleasant enough task in and of itself to distract me from the topic. Eventually, though, we realized we needed some kind of a production which would attract the attention of the snoopy Mrs. Hopper.

As we were leaving the building we passed Mrs. Hopper in the hall, and Bicky saw an opportunity to lay some groundwork.

"Did you sleep well, Mrs. Hopper?"

"Fine, why?"

"Oh, we had a terrible night. I think there's a ghost on my floor. I've been noticing strange things for a while so I asked my cousin down to see what he thought - he's a poet you know, very sensitive. He couldn't sleep a wink." (I'm certain my bleary look bore that statement out.) "Hasn't anyone else mentioned it? Clucking. Like a chicken. I can't imagine there'd be any chickens in an apartment building! We're just going out to see if we can find a medium or someone to come check the place out."

The Hopper leaned on her broom and glared at us suspiciously, though I hoped there was an undercurrent of worry. "Someone did mention hearing chickens... But a ghost! I've never had such a thing on my property!"

"I'm off to see if we can get this sorted out, I'm sure we can get it exorcised or something!"

She gave a noncommittal grunt, glaring as though we'd tracked mud on the carpet, Bicky nudged me gently in the small of the back and we scampered off down the stairs. It wasn't until we'd cleared the front door of the building, though, that Bicky muttered, "Neighbors! You can't trust them. They're always turning a person in. It's not as though I'm printing money in my apartment or something!" But after a moment he asked, "Do you think we laid it on too thick?"

"She's a hard sell, isn't she?"

"The hardest! Born suspicious."

We had scraped together every spare coin, and found a phone booth from which I called my Aunt to inquire about the medium she knew, and quickly determined that would be a bit on the pricey side, so then we wandered around trying to find a few people he knew who might have leads, not being sure how to go about finding the right sort of person. It was a long and mostly unproductive day, though we got a lot of exercise walking. It wasn't until late afternoon when we walked by a small nightclub in Harlem and he mentioned he'd met a girl from Haiti who was singing there that inspiration struck.

The place wasn't open yet, but the door man allowed us in to see the manager and Bicky begged him to just place a telephone call to the boarding house Marie lived in and ask if she would see us before she came in for work that evening. He did and she said she would, and it was not too much longer before we were sitting across from her - a pleasantly round-faced girl with a curvaceous figure and a voice like honey - in a diner that did breakfast all day, telling her the whole, unvarnished story of Bicky's unsympathetic landlady and uncertain money flow.

"What a tremendous liar you are, Francis! I never imagined you had it in you."

"I'm supposed to be a writer, I should have something in me. And it's for my home and my hens!"

She hmmed, curious and sympathetic. "I'll take you to someone. But be respectful! He's a priest, very wise, and you'll have to convince him that your need is great enough to merit lying to someone."

Bicky nodded frantically. "Of course!"

Marie smiled, and she had a smile that sparkled in her dark eyes. She said it wasn't far, not even worth taking a bus, and we would go as soon as we finished eating. I wished we'd done something else besides walk all day, but as it turned out it really wasn't far. When she led us into a little shop I thought at first she'd decided to stop for something she needed, but she went directly to the man behind the counter and exchanged a few words with him, then turned to browse the shelves - an eclectic blend of exotic foods and oddments - telling us that the young man would see if the priest was free.

Barely were the words out of her mouth than the counter man popped his head around a corner and called, "He says come back Tuesday."

"Can it wait until Tuesday?" Marie asked.

"No... I'll have lost my home by then." He turned to the counter man. "Please ask if he can't see us now?"

A quick nod and the man disappeared again. This time he was gone a little longer, but soon was back and beckoning us to enter the back room.

The voodoo priest was a small man, nearly toothless, and dressed in a spotless white shirt and trousers which hung on his skinny frame like a robe. His face was deeply lined with both sorrow and laughter. I wasn't sure we should try to convince someone so venerable to help us lie to someone, and looking at Bicky I could see he was nervous as well.

However, he steeled himself and forged ahead, laying his case as well as he could, with Marie acting as interpreter on occasion. It wasn't that the elderly man didn't speak English, exactly - he seemed to understand everything Bicky said quite well - but he spoke it with such a heavy accent and sprinkled in so many odd words that sometimes my friend got the wrong end of the stick.

The priest's reaction seemed mostly amused, and he finally said something that sounded like an agreement with some condition. Marie took pity on us and relayed it as, "He doesn't think you've considered your options fully enough, but he has decided to help you. He wants two dozen eggs and twenty silver dollars."

"But my hens haven't started laying yet. I think they're not used to their new home. And twenty dollars?!"

"Silver dollars. The coins."

I said I could probably get a little money from my Aunt to help out.

A few more words from the priest, and again Bicky threw a despairing look to Marie.

"He says he can take fifteen dollars and three dozen eggs, delivered when they're available. The hens will lay soon."

My friend considered and nodded. "Okay."

***

The priest showed up only a half hour after the appointed time the following day, and nobody could have felt too annoyed with him for being late when they saw his shuffling gait as he entered the apartment, though Bicky had been a little nervous while waiting. He was concerned his landlady would go out to run errands before she had the chance to witness our little piece of drama. He had told her he was calling in a ghost exterminator and hoped that her curiosity would bring her around to see, and as it turned out he was not disappointed.

As we stepped out into the hall to allow the priest his space we saw that she had followed the old man up the stairs, though her apprehension got the better of her and she stood in the doorway from the landing, glaring down the hall at us.

Bicky beckoning her down, unable to stifle a smile. "Come stand where you can see, Mrs. Hopper. It's not every day you get to witness something like this."

She moved down next to us, clutching her broom in both hands, and did not come completely to rest, but continued to rock slightly from one foot to the other. Bicky had confided to me that he wondered if she carried the broom around all day as a weapon, as the halls never looked as though it had been used on them. It seemed our story had hit a nerve - a ghost chicken might sound silly to us, but she couldn't hit a ghost with her broom.

We had moved all the furniture back against the walls so he would have plenty of room to work in, and the voodoo man put on a pretty good show for fifteen dollars. By the time he was done with his dancing and rattles and tossing about of water and salt and burning of herbs and chanting I was wide-eyed as a kid at a magic show, and Bicky told me later he had felt something real was being done, against all his understanding of the nature of the world. Maybe that was something he filled in, in retrospect, given later events, or maybe becoming convinced at this time was the true cause of those events, I've never been sure. The old man's voice drew shivers down our spines with its droning intonations and eerie wails; it was certainly good theater and I don't think anyone else we might have hired even at twice the price could have done better, though when the old man ceased his stomping and rattling and shuffled over to us with his toothy grin I think it still pained Bicky to have to hand the man the coins we had prepared.

"I have done what I can," the priest proclaimed, loudly, and obviously with great effort to be clear, "But your ghost is a lonely cock-rooster. He needs hens! You must get hens to keep him company or he will continue to disrupt. No peace." Though he was carefully speaking more clearly it seemed to me that he was purposely stilted, pretending a greater discomfort with English than he actually had in order to impress our landlady a bit more with his exoticness.

"Hens? I'll need to bring hens into my apartment? But they're against code."

The voodoo man shrugged and I came in on my cue. "Well, I'm not sure they're actually completely forbidden by law. I believe I read that if there has always been a domestic fowl on the premises it's not possible to tell tenants that they can't keep birds." I was proud of my 'domestic fowl' phrase, I thought it made the whole thing sound vaguely legal.

"So, you mean that because this ghost rooster has been continually in residence since before the ordinance against keeping farm animals was enacted it's still all right to keep chickens? Still, I don't know if I want the trouble..." Bicky trailed off and looked to his landlady. "What do you say, Mrs. Hopper? Should I get a couple of hens?"

The Hopper's eyes looked about like two eggs themselves, by this time, her fears of ghosts and lawyers and city regulatory inspectors causing enough pressure inside her head to make them bulge. She gulped and took a couple of vicious and ineffectual swipes at the dust on the floor with her broom to calm herself. "Fine, Mr. Bickerstaff! Git a couple of hens. Your security deposit goes up to cover the cost of cleaning up after you leave."  
The old man bowed and grinned and shuffled off down the east stairs and Mrs Hopper watched him go, narrowing her eyes, then glowered at Bicky before she stumped off for the west staircase.

Bicky, his usual energy restored, bounced into his apartment and went straight to his hens' improvised cage under the sink to let them out, and I wandered after, grinning, and shut the door as he burbled with delight to the hens and me, and ran around restoring the furniture to its usual places and chattering.

Eventually he cooled down, and broke off with, "Oh, but we have to get you to your publisher's, don't we?"

"No, I don't know, no hurry. In fact maybe some time to think has been good. I should go back home and rework these poems a little more." I had never felt more close with Bicky; going through strange events together has that effect, and now I felt a great reluctance to disrupt that closeness.

"You said you had enough for a small book. Here, why don't you let me look them over and I'll give you some feedback." He reached for my notebook where I'd left it on the table - I attempted to move quickly but he was much closer than I was.

"It's not very saleable, I think," I attempted.

"It's probably much better than you think. You might be too close to it at the moment."

"I, uh, there are bookmarks at the finished ones."

"I'll be gentle," Bicky said, grinning up at me and patting my arm, and then sat down at the table to look through the book. "You could put the kettle on," he murmured absently, and I went to fill it, grateful for something to do.

When I had filled it and lit the stove I washed some cups and tried to round up all the things I thought I remembered Bicky setting out, though I was sure I had missed some things, being distracted and unfamiliar with the tea process.

Bicky read for some time, with the frown of careful consideration due to poems before he raised his eyes, brows arched. “Are you trying to write a female voice, here?”

“No.”

“Oh. Maybe for publication you might want to swap out the gender pronouns.”

I nodded slowly, watching him for any sense of surprise or disgust, but he continued to read, unruffled, though as he flipped to another bookmark something passed across his face that I wasn't sure of.

“Is there anything else?” I brought myself to ask.

“Not in particular, though I can see why you're hesitant to present these at the moment. Possibly you do want to rework them just a little more – cloud a reference here and there.”

“So you don't think there's anything... well, basically wrong with them?”

“Not really. Look at what Walt Whitman gets away with. Perhaps the States are such a big country that people feel there's room for all types.”

I looked at my shoes. “It's never felt that way to me,” I said, quietly.

He gave me a level gaze, then slowly responded, “Then maybe I've developed that point of view because I'm the outsider, here. People always do seem to feel they can get away with a lot more when they're in a country which is not their own. Without the customs one is used to... your customs tell you what's wrong and right, and without those guidelines you know it seems as though there are no rules. I've been here long enough to realize that sometimes people come here and cut up something awful, and the native New Yorker seems to shrug it off as 'Their Foreign Customs.'”

With quotation marks and capitalized, I could hear it in his tone. “So people behave badly when they're away from home?”

“Maybe not badly, but differently, probably. Outlandishly? And the natives allow it to some extent. I think the reason we say travel broadens the mind is that we realize more of who we really are when we're liberated from the reins we were raised in.” He gazed at the book unseeingly, fingers running over the cover, then shook himself and continued, “Yes, just a few adjustments, then bring them back down, and if your publisher won't go for them tell them you can find someone who will, and then we'll take them over to my people. And if they won't, we'll take them to all the other people.” He grinned at me.

I know I grinned like a dope, and grabbed his hand. “Thank you, Bicky. I... well, I guess I'd better go catch my train.”

He held onto my hand for a long moment and looked up at me searchingly, nervous. "Alright. Thank you for your help, cuz."

'Cuz' was it? It didn't sound promising. Somehow I'd hoped to escape being denoted as family - it implied that certain things might be off limits.

"Yes, well. If you ever feel like bringing Colette and Paulette up for a little fresh country air, don't hesitate."

"I'll remember that!" he replied, warmly. And off I went for my train back home.

The next week was mostly a blur of late evenings when I tossed and turned and couldn't get to sleep, wandering on the banks of the pond, trying to compose something about the aching knife edge of not knowing how someone else feels, and then sleeping later and later into the mornings.

Until one morning I was awakened by a knock on the door to find Bicky on the porch with a very large covered bird cage and valise, looking nervous and apologetic, which faded to a cautious pleasure when I effusively bid him welcome and picked up the cage to usher him in.

"I did hope that you were serious when you said I could bring the hens up?"

"Of course! Nothing better for hens than running around to scratch in the great outdoors, right? It's great to see you!" I realized I was repeating myself, but it really was wonderful. "What made you decide to come up?"

"Oh well, several things. I mean, not that it was really the most important thing, but, well... it's been a mess, Rocky," he said, as I helped him off with his coat and tossed it across the back of a chair. "I haven't gotten any sleep since you left. I know this will sound completely insane. Promise you won't laugh?"

"I'd never laugh."

He took a deep breath. "Apparently the voodoo man thought the best way to lend veracity to our claims was to actually induce a ghost rooster to move into the flat."

"What?"

"Yes. I thought at first that the hens were getting out, as the entire place would be a complete disaster every morning. Bread pulled off the counter and tossed around, things knocked down. But they were always safely in their cage. They did start laying, though! Two eggs apiece every day."

"What a scam! I hope you haven't paid him for this?"

"Are you joking? Of course I did. If he can do that, imagine what he might do if I didn't pay him! They hadn't laid enough eggs, yet, so I borrowed some money from a friend and made up the difference in silver dollars. The man had the gall to ask me how it was going and grin at me."

"And what did you say?"

"I said he was probably right, I hadn't considered my options fully enough before I consulted him. And then I bought a cage to transport the girls. Rocky, I know it's a lot to ask, but do you think they could stay with you? I know you probably never wanted chickens, but surely they would be better off, here."

"Of course they can!" This was not what I had hoped for as a reason for him to visit, and I'd really prefer he stayed himself rather than just leaving the hens here, but I'd take any opportunity to have him around that I could get.

"Do you think you might have any tea around?"

I realized I was just standing and staring at him, just pleased to see him and drinking in the sight, and probably looking like a complete dope. "Sure! Well, probably. Maybe. I'm not sure, but there might be something. It's really great to see you."

I scraped around a little and we eventually found most of what he needed to make a couple of cups of tea, and got the wood stove fired up, then settled down companionably to wait for the kettle to heat, he sitting near the stove in one of the kitchen chairs and myself in my armchair with my feet tucked up, huddled in my bathrobe. "We'll have to figure something out for a hencoop," I said. "There's a farm down the road just a mile or so, maybe they can help us with some spare lumber and fencing."

"And some expertise, I hope. I have no idea how to build a coop."

And that was how we spent most of the day, after we'd breakfasted and I'd got cleaned up and presentable for going over to the farm - we bought and consulted and built. Building things together gives plenty of opportunity to be physically close, and I was nervous and clumsy, but I noted he was a little clumsy himself. Eventually we got Colette and Paulette settled into a new home, and they wandered around in it scolding. It was almost sunset before we'd finished, and we adjourned to prepare dinner.

I was delighted that he hadn't said a word about going home this evening, and dropped the hint that it was far too late, he really had to stay with me.

He chewed a lip most adorably and finally met my eye. "I'm sure we could make it more comfortable than when you were at my place."

Something about the way he said it made me feel as though I was missing something. "Of course we could," I said, "I have a guest bedroom. There are sheets and everything."

"There are? Oh." He looked back to cutting the broccoli. I'd given him my only apron, as his clothes were much nicer than any I owned and I marveled at how it emphasized his butt. "I haven't slept at all well for the past week. And I don't sleep well alone in an unfamiliar place." He took a deep breath and let it out, then he put down the knife and wiped his fingers, brushed his hands down the front of the apron a few times, and turned to look up at me. "And Rocky? My given name is spelled F-r-a-n-c-i-s.”

I gulped hard. “You saw that poem?” It came out as a hoarse whisper.

He nodded, and I realized he looked terrified. He reached up to put his other hand on my lapel, then slide it up to my shoulder and then the back of my neck, and pulled me down to meet his lips.

And he was right, that evening was much more comfortable.

**Author's Note:**

> I didn't really do a whole lot of research, but conferred with my brother (a musician with a degree in ethno-musicology) after the fact, and he assures me that my instinct was right; People from mainstream culture are often introduced to subcultures such as Voodoo or Santeria through acquaintance with musicians and singers who work both regular clubs and perform at religious rituals.
> 
> I need to dedicate this story to RatGirl, who came up with the idea of a ghost chicken. :)


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